


The Stroke of Midnight

by FrozenSnares



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Dancing, F/M, First Meetings, Flirting, Kissing, Masquerade, Retelling, Rickeen Shipweek, disguises, paper faces on parade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 07:37:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8154323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenSnares/pseuds/FrozenSnares
Summary: As the youngest prince of the ruling family in the land, Rickon Stark is welcome to court any woman he has an interest in. Unfortunately, the only one to catch his eye disappears, and he can only hope that she appears for the masquerades thrown for his birthday. Written for Day 4 of Rickeen Shipweek—Prompt: Faerie Tale





	

**Author's Note:**

> [Picset](http://frozensnares.tumblr.com/post/151055758629/the-stroke-of-midnight-as-the-youngest-prince-of)

From the eyes of the commoners, everything about the royal Stark family was perfect. After all, the lord and lady of the Winterfell ruled their lands justly and with kindness. They had many children. Their eldest son was already wed to the future queen, and the remainder of their children were living as wonderfully and freely as expected of princes and princesses.

They never saw beyond the walls of the castle, though. All the people of Winterfell knew was what was presented of the Stark family, what the royal family wanted everyone to see. They didn't know that the youngest prince was currently troubling his parents in every possible way, almost simply for the sake of it. Of the five royal children, Rickon Stark took the longest time completing his lessons, dragged his feet whenever there were dignitaries to greet, avoided using proper manners whenever possible, and snuck away from his princely duties at every opportunity.

This morning, Rickon was out on his horse—unsaddled, as the stable boy would have tried to persuade him away—racing through the countryside as quickly as he could. Rickon was avoiding the conversation he was due for upon his return. Within the next two months, he would be of an age to marry. He knew that as a prince it was his responsibility to forge a bond between another family with his marriage. He was expected to further the influence of the Stark name in some way.

All of his siblings had managed to do this, regardless of how unconventional they chose to accomplish this.

Robb had been wed to the princess of a foreign city, learning and teaching the differences in customs. He somehow managed to keep his manner stately while finding the best times to blend the customs for everyone's comfort. Sansa had been offered marriages from nearly every lord in the country. However, she distinctly chose one who never asked, marred as his face was, because she knew that he wanted to. Still, their marriage had formed an even stronger alliance than anyone thought possible, especially when Sansa's kindness made it so the southern folk thrived under their leadership. Arya was steadfast in her decision to wed the blacksmith, and nothing anyone said would change that. But they used their union to travel about and ensure that House Stark could provide better, personal aid to anyone who needed assistance, regardless of whether they could afford it. Bran opted not to marry, which Rickon always admired and thought to follow in until Bran took the path of the scholar. He now traveled the lands, stopping at every keep and castle, learning anything and everything he could.

Rickon almost wanted to curse his family for being so assured in their lives. They had all rushed off and found happiness, demanded it even, and made it beneficial for everyone. Now, he had a series of figures to live up to, people to match in his decisions when he didn't know what he would do with the remainder of his life.

Slowing to a stop, Rickon looked out over the countryside. The grasses were already sparse, and his birthday at least brought about one good thing: winter. Soon, snows would be falling daily, and everything would be erased from the landscape, waiting to be rewritten by whatever force was strongest. The air already smelled crisper, cleaner, and he prayed for snow to come soon. Sliding off his horse, Rickon walked down the edge of the forest, knowing that beyond the tree line, his titles meant nothing. He could slip away, become lost to wildlife, find another town to settle in where he had no expectations to live up to…

On every ride, Rickon considered it. It was tempting to be away from the royal seal that so often sat on his shoulder. He gladly left it behind whenever possible, trying to have some distance from the life he never asked for. Grabbing the reigns loosely, Rickon slid from his horse, rubbing a hand over her back and clicking his tongue at her.

“An easy ride today,” he told the horse. Then, he tapped her flank with firm pressure. “Go on, then. I know the way back.”

The horse leaned into his neck for a moment before taking off at a steady pace, which Rickon thanked her for. The second his horse was spotted, he would be retrieved to return to the castle and forced to discuss his prospects.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Rickon walked about. He enjoyed the time alone, drifting as far from the city as possible. He knew the area well enough, but still found himself shocked to find a sizeable home with smoke coming from the chimney. Having seen the house various times, Rickon thought it abandoned. Never had it shown such signs of life, and he found himself steadily walking toward it.

Animals bustled about both in and out of the gate. Chickens, goats, a cow—any of them could be wild and not tamed here. Rickon frowned, moving further from the short fence and around the property. His curiosities were only growing to go explore the source of the smoke until a soft, lilting melody caught his attention.

The song never stayed the same. The tune switched at a moment's notice, never settling. Still, Rickon felt drawn to the voice. He had never heard such beautiful fragments of song hummed and mumbled out with such keen sense of tune. Had he bothered with his studies, he may have named every song.

Rounding a corner, Rickon sucked in a deep breath. Far off in the distance, a lady rummaged about a bush, plucking berries from the branches. She swayed lightly on the spot, matching the tempo of her ever-changing song, and she slowly went about her task.

Leaning onto the gate, Rickon watched her. Long, black hair was bound back with cloth. Her dress was simple, ending just above her ankles, and she appeared to be barefoot. He never caught her face, not truly, but he pressed further into the gate to try. The old hinge squeaked loudly, catching the girl's attention, and she spun about quickly. Instantly, she tripped on her feet and fell to the muddy ground.

“Apologies, my lady,” Rickon called, rushing forward to offer her a hand up. “I only meant to check the smoke, I didn't mean—”

With a sputter, she looked up at him, nearly glaring through the grime now plastered on her face. Digging the hem of her dress into the mud, she sat up, shaking away the basket of berries. “It's a chimney,” she said sharply. “Common for most with the changing seasons, sir.”

Even though she looked cross, Rickon was captivated by her eyes. Bright and blue—the bluest of any he'd ever seen before—made all the more striking against the dirt on her. He opened his mouth to respond, trying to remember the conversation when she gasped sharply. Immediately, Rickon's hand went to his non-existent sword belt, and he turned to find any source of harm. Nothing was there, though, and the girl let out another small sound.

“You're the prince,” she breathed out. Quickly, she shuffled away, straightening her skirts with her muddied hands. “Sorry, Your Grace. I only—I simply…”

“Please,” Rickon started, hoping to ease the situation, “allow me to help. It was my fault.”

“No,” the girl said quickly. “Never the fault of a royal. I should have realized.”

Rickon resisted the urge to chuckle, though he could not stop his smile. This lady was eagerly trying to justify his rebellious riding, and she didn't know the half of it. “It wouldn't have been a problem if I hadn't lost my horse,” he said. “Let me help you clean off. Your face…”

Her eyes widened, and she took a large step away. A hand darted to her face, but she made no effort to clean it off or help her discomfort. “I'm like to just fall again,” she breathed out. “Best to leave it.”

This time, Rickon couldn't stop the outright laughter from escaping him. Her candor was enough to keep him near, but she seemed to be shying away and japing in the same phrase. He wanted to match her wit, to be as clever and make her feel safe. Wracking his brain, Rickon was stopped from responding when a loud call came from behind.

“Lord Stark!”

Rolling his eyes, Rickon dampened his groan. With his new company, he didn't want to return to the castle at all today. Still, he knew that Jory would not be stopped from bringing him home.

“Duty calls,” the girl chimed out, starting another tune under her breath.

“Can I see you again?” Rickon asked before he could stop himself. He knew that this would only be fleeting, but she had only one outburst to his status before treating him with cheeky quips.

She twisted her mouth, strolling past him. “Mayhap not, Your Grace,” she said. “My mother wouldn't like it.”

Rickon furrowed his brow, thinking that this might be worth pulling his status for. “But I'm the prince.”

The girl turned to give him a look. “She doesn't look kindly on those who can't knock,” she told him. “But perhaps princes are entitled to everything on their land.”

“I'd rather be invited,” Rickon admitted.

“Likewise,” she responded. Giving him a smile, she gestured out the gate to where the guard waited for him.

Seeing that she meant it as an invitation, Rickon took the cue, giving her a low bow before leaving off on his now-saddled horse. With Jory at his side, Rickon returned to the castle, keeping up easy conversation with his guard.

“And did the lady live in that home?” Jory asked, having made Rickon recount all the events twice over.

“I can only assume,” Rickon replied. He narrowed his eyes at the nearing castle, trying to think of a way from his summons. “Are there even any ladies left who can beg for my hand?”

“Every woman in the country,” Jory answered. “Denying the other royals doesn't let you off.”

With a groan from Rickon, Jory laughed, and the two of them returned to the castle, ready to slide back into their dictated lives. Rickon took time to wash up, not for the sake of others but simply for more time to himself.

He was used to going riding, meeting folk out in the country and spending time with them. Oftentimes, he would return to visit them again, though none of the common folk would dare hold a candle for their prince. Even if men japed with him about arranging a marriage for their daughters, regardless of how keen the ladies looked at the prospects, his position was entirely settled long ago. And soon, he would know where he was to end up.

“You truly liked none of them?” his mother asked, signaling for someone to pour them tea. “You could have your choice of any. They would be honored to take your hand.”

Rickon groaned loudly, slumping back in his seat. He waved off the offer of pastries. “And I'd be forced to hear them recite their courtesies every day, simply following the mold of who they're expected to be,” he pointed out. “If I wanted to wed a puppet, the choice would be easy.”

His parents exchanged a look. Surely, they were just as concerned for his happiness as they were for his siblings'. After all, with the leniency his sisters had been given, it wouldn't be too far off to ask for anything else. Rickon just didn't want to bring it up himself. Luckily, his father seemed to notice.

“He doesn't have to marry a princess,” his father started slowly. “With our heir secured, Rickon can wed as he pleases and if the princesses don't please him…”

“Ned,” his wife said warningly.

“There are plenty of ladies in the village,” he finished, giving his son a wink.

His mother pursed her lips, mulling the thought over. Rickon was doing the same, but he waited for his mother's reaction first. After a moment, she crossed her arms and leaned back in the chair. “He may just as well choose from the entire country,” she said, undoubtedly intending it to be sarcastic.

Ned didn't catch on. “You're right, Cat. Our boy should have his choice of the lot,” he declared, walking about the room. “Sometime soon… perhaps before his birthday.”

Rickon waited patiently, happy that it seemed like he'd get whatever he wanted at the end of it, regardless of how his parents decided to go about it. He waited patiently for the outcome to present itself.

Catelyn rolled her eyes, leaning toward her husband. “You can't just invite the entire country, dear,” she told him diplomatically. “It would be a spectacle.”

His father grumbled slightly, staring into the fire for a moment. Then, his face lit up. “Or,” he started, as if trying to test the words in his mouth, “It could be a ball. Yes! A grand ball for the youngest prince, for him to choose whichever lady he'd like to court.”

With a giggle, Catelyn turned to her son before facing the king again. “He already knows the princesses,” she pointed out. “The ladies won't stand a chance if he knows them.”

Rickon dampened a groan, though he wasn't at all surprised at how much his mother was pushing for another royal wedding. His father seemed to share the same mind, but he wouldn't be stopped.

“A masked ball,” he said firmly, “for three days to properly give Rickon time to meet everyone who comes. And… on the final night, everyone can become unmasked, and he can choose who to court.”

Ned turned to Rickon with a wide smile, obviously pleased with his new plan. Rickon shrugged lightly, nodding and giving him a sheepish acceptance. Should he actually meet every lady vying for his hand, he might actually find a lady who wasn't entirely unbearable. And if he didn't, then he may be allowed to continue taking up trades instead of looking for marriages.

Finally, his mother relented. She sighed and walked about the table to meet his father's outstretched hand. “You always were keen on romance,” she murmured. “Should we also invite our children back?”

“It'll truly be a spectacle, then,” Ned said, bending down to kiss his wife.

Using it as the perfect distraction, Rickon ran from the room. He raced off through the castle, thinking that now he only had to suffer three nights of balls before he was truly given his freedom. As expected, he was given an official notice the next morning. Rickon was free to roam the local city as he wanted, searching for ladies to personally invite to the ball. His father would send announcements to every lord in the country and every household in the city, asking them to attend the three nights of masquerades.

As much as Rickon prepared to spend his days outside of castle walls being free, his reality was much different. It didn't matter how poorly he dressed, he was always recognized as a prince. This made ladies flock to his side for attention, trying to assist him however they could. Even in a sailor's shop full of onions, the women found him and insisted that they could cook everything to perfection.

On the third day of this happening, Rickon ran off to the countryside again. He wouldn't be followed if they didn't see him go, so he diverted his path early on and bolted out to the edge of the city. He found the same house from before, looking just as abandoned as always. There was no smoke rising from the chimney today. Rickon rode around, finding the back gate open, and a small path out to the woods. Hesitantly, he followed it down.

The forest path grew dark quickly, shadowed by the canopy above. All around him, the forest came to life. Birds flew closer to him than ever before, and he even spotted rabbits and deer that usually avoided contact with humans. Reaching into his bag, Rickon tossed out an apple and left it between the roots of a tree for a lucky creature to find. He went on until he came into a clearing. There, he slipped off his horse, pulling out another apple to feed his mount.

Rickon slowly wandered the clearing, checking through the area for anything of interest. He made it halfway around a tree before he spotted the same lady from the yard. She was nestled into the roots of the tree, writing over a foot of parchment. Rickon smiled to himself, thinking that if anyone could help with his current predicament, she surely could. After failing at clearing his throat, he simply spoke up.

“Out alone, my lady?” he asked.

She jumped, sending a wisp from her inkwell flying. Sputtering out a noise, she pulled her parchment away, keeping it clean from her spill. Her body fell with a sigh, and she turned to face him. “Not anymore, it seems.”

Rickon winced. “Apologies, my lady,” he said, kneeling at her side. “Can I help…?”

Shaking her head, she turned and showed the mess of ink over the side of her face. She smiled, looking right mad for doing so. “I may simply be doomed to spills in your presence, Your Grace,” she said. “But by all means, join me.”

Rickon smiled back, taking the offered root to sit on and looking over at her. “Who do you write to?”

“I've no one to write, I'm afraid,” she admitted. Looking down at the parchment, she sighed before folding it up and tucking it away. “It was only a reminder to myself that I _can_ write.”

“And well, it seems,” Rickon said. He watched her meticulously close the ink, tucking it away before cleaning off her quill on her ruined dress. After she finished, she turned to him again.

“What brings you to the wood today?” she asked.

“Ah,” Rickon sighed. “Escaping.”

She raised her eyebrows, curiosity piqued. “From?”

Leaning back, Rickon twisted his mouth, wondering how to explain. “I was visiting the village, and women would not leave me be,” he said. “Even dressed as such, I get no reprieve.”

She laughed loudly, throwing her head back. Then, she looked at him sideways. “It's your hair,” she said simply.

“Pardon me?”

Sitting up straighter, she went on. “You've the look of your mother,” she explained. “None else have it so far north. Your hair shines red in the sun.”

Rickon furrowed his brow, trying to remember what his hair even looked like. After a moment, he remembered seeing the trait only from his mother's family down south. “Is that how you knew me?” he asked. “As the prince?”

“It is,” she admitted. “Though, I'm afraid I don't know your name. I'm not from this part of the country.”

Rickon waved off the excuse. He knew his anonymity wouldn't last regardless, and being called by his name was preferable to _Your Grace_ in his eyes. “Rickon Stark,” he said. “Though, they usually follow that with titles and claims I haven't earned.”

“Shireen,” she said firmly. “Though I've no titles to consider.”

Smiling, Rickon got to his feet. “It is an honor to meet you,” he said, “even if I've now ruined your appearance twice. Can I escort you back to your home?”

“Oh, um, no,” she said softly. “I've an errand to run in the city I'm afraid.”

Rickon thought quickly. “I can offer you a ride,” he said, gesturing to his horse.

Shireen gave him a weak smile before lowering her voice. “I'd rather not become victim to your admirers,” she admitted, “and it would save you the queries about escorting odd women around.”

“You aren't odd,” Rickon said without thinking.

Laughing loudly, she brushed past him. “Covered in ink and dirt, he thinks me normal?” she japed, throwing a look over her shoulder. “I must be dreaming to be so fancied by a prince.”

\--

Rickon didn't particularly think that he fancied Shireen. He had only met her twice, and very briefly both times. Still, even with his new disguise into the city, he found himself trying to seek her out again. Every time he ventured out to that edge of the wood, the house was empty. There was no sign of smoke or heat, even when the weather became colder. He even went out to the clearing again, trying to chance another meeting with her. All his attempts were to no avail.

Frowning hard, Rickon rode into the city, now with ink coloring his hair black. He had ruined five of his tunics doing so for the past fortnight, but it was well worth the annoyance of the cleaning staff to have his anonymity. No one spared him a glance now. He could leave his horse about, and she wouldn't be bothered. Even the shopkeepers insisted that he pay full price for everything, much to his glee.

He truly wandered the city now, starting up conversations with the common folk and finding that without his status on such high display, no one paid him anymore mind than usual. Rickon did catch someone staring at him one day, and the sight of them quickly disappearing was enough to make him give chase. Weaving through the market, Rickon raced his way into a sailor's shop, stopping abruptly before sending a barrel of onions over. One thought was racing through his brain, and it took a moment for him to remember it.

“Did a lady just run through here?” he asked the sailor. “She had black hair… like ink…”

The sailor gave him a confused look. Then, he pulled out a rag and wiped down the counter. “Don't get many women here,” he said gruffly. “Not unless they're doing their shopping, or following that prince who tried to sneak away in here once.”

Rickon bit back his apology, remembering that he was disguised now. Then, he remembered another possibility. “Did you ever meet a lady by the name of Shireen?” he asked hopefully. “She lived on the edge of the wood.”

“Aye, I knew this Shireen,” he said. He looked up at Rickon's hopeful expression before shaking his head slightly. “But not from the wood. That old house has been abandoned since you were a lad. She likely lived elsewhere before she left.”

“She left?” Rickon blurted out, unable to stop the outburst.

The sailor nodded. “A week back, if my counting's still good,” he said. “Off to another part of the country, it seemed.”

“Oh.” Rickon sighed, thanking the sailor and making his way back to the castle. There was no one in the city he'd thought to invite other than Shireen, particularly after they'd mentioned it so explicitly. With the news and announcements being sent off on the morrow, Rickon had hoped to give her the news early.

The next day, Rickon rode over to the home one last time. He hid an announcement in his doublet and kept his hair inked in case Shireen had truly moved. He rode about the home a single time, seeing no signs of life before he simply went up to the door and knocked.

He didn't expect a response, not truly, so he nearly jumped when the door creaked open. On the other side was an older woman with hair as red as blood. Her skin was almost a sickly white, though she appeared to be healthy enough. The dress she wore was the same shade of red, and Rickon felt like he was intruding on her home.

“Can I help you?” she asked. Her voice was far too warm, too gentle, as if she were trying to coax him in.

Rickon swallowed hard. “Is there anyone here by the name of Shireen?” he asked.

“No, my dear boy,” she replied. “I'm afraid I live all alone.”

“My apologies,” Rickon said, quickly stepping away. He could feel an unnatural heat coming from the door of the house, and it was suffocating, even at a distance. “I'll just be on my way.”

He left before the woman could respond, mounting his horse and riding until he couldn't see the house anymore. Then, he paused to catch his breath and looped back into the wood. He wanted to find the clearing, at the very least. Rickon wanted to leave Shireen's invitation some place where he was certain she existed, even if she was no longer in the city.

Rickon ended up tucking it into a branch of the tree. He made sure it wasn't too high up, and that she might notice it if she happened to come by again. Satisfied with his attempt, Rickon went back into the town, positive that word of the ball had been spread, and that he'd get to see some of the reaction to it.

The city was buzzing. Streets that were empty the day before were now littered with people. Shops with no business the day prior were now packed with customers. It took Rickon a long while to find a place for his horse, and it took him even longer to walk into the city center. He could hear the excitement of the common folk, and it didn't escape his notice that both men and women were preparing for the ball.

“The prince can only choose one,” he overheard a man saying. “And I'll not leave hundreds of women without dance partners.”

Rickon nearly laughed. He had been so consumed with the thoughts of his own marriage, he hadn't even considered how many others may come from this ball. He strolled down the street, peering into shops to catch a glimpse of the chaos within, knowing that he'd return to the castle later and be fitted for his own wardrobe.

“Mind your step there!” a young woman called. She had a measuring tape about her neck, and she gave Rickon an appraising nod as he stepped over the hole in the walk. “Fancy something new for the ball? A sight like you will be taken the instant the prince has his choice.”

Rickon grinned, declining the offer, but it was enough to catch the attention of some surrounding women.

“I'm saving myself for the prince, but you look right good for a dance,” one called.

“I've a dowry if you're looking!” another shouted.

Declining all the offers, Rickon slowly left back to his horse, thinking that his home may now be preferable to the liveliness of the city.

Everything moved as expected upon his return. Immediately, his mother demanded him to a bath so he could rid the color from his hair. Rickon obliged, if only to keep the next fortnight before the ball comfortable. His rides out would be fewer, but he didn't have anything to ride for anyway. He washed the ink out, leaving his bathwater a mess, and only ruining a single linen in the process. Then, he was measured and forced to select multiple fabrics for the three days of the ball. His mother helped there, stepping in and draping fabrics over his arm before choosing for him. The whole time, she spoke of how fitting it would be for him to choose this princess or another in retrospect. Rickon ignored it all, nodding along when he needed to. However, his thoughts were consumed with bright blue eyes and hair darker than he managed to make his own.

Despite the preparations and planning that had to go into the ball, Rickon found time to sneak off and check on his invitation in the woods. He was massively disappointed the first time, finding it tucked into the tree and slightly damp from the natural elements. It was enough to make him doubt his happiness when he found it missing just a few days before the first ball. He knew that any creature or a particularly strong gust of wind could have carried it away, but he held out hope that Shireen had somehow returned and found it.

His entire family arrived in time to miss the snows that came just before the balls. None of them complained in the slightest about the weather, though there was enough arguing about everything else to fill his ears. Thankfully, none seemed peeved about the ball itself. Arya had her own concerns about being forced into a dress, but her husband managed to make her comply, even if it was only if she could remove any parts she didn't like.

Sansa brought with her news of her pregnancy, much to his mother's delight. Catelyn positively swooned over her daughter's impending child, far off as it was. Rickon congratulated her, thankful that he'd have something to distract his parents with should he come up empty-handed at the end of the festivities.

Bran and Robb were the easiest to handle after long absences. Bran returned with new books for their library, insisting that it could always be better. And Robb simply returned with the promise to stay. He would have his coronation when their father stepped down, now that he finished his journey to the south to visit his wife's family.

Rickon was simply glad for the distraction from the prospects of his own marriage, even if it was the reason for everyone's return. They all provided good conversation and outlets for escape up until the day of the ball.

“Formal introductions will be on the second night,” his father reminded him. “Because of your mother's insistence that you meet everyone on equal grounds.”

Robb laughed from behind them. He put down his goblet before turning to face them. “Then Rickon should be allowed to send the ladies away if he doesn't like them,” he said. “That way everyone can see how picky he is.”

From his side, his wife threw a grape at him. She frowned. “And why shouldn't he be picky?” she asked. “If he's to find a wife, he needs to come to love her.”

Robb leaned back to smile at his wife. “Well, he's not as lucky as we are, then,” he said. “No one as pretty as my Myrcella for Rickon to choose from.”

Even though she tossed another grape again, Myrcella also leaned forward to kiss Robb. Rickon rolled his eyes away from them, thinking that he couldn't ever see himself being that open with someone. Still, he couldn't stop the distant feeling that it might be nice to find someone he'd want to share it with.

He went into the first night with the smallest bit of optimism. After all, he didn't want to be accused of sabotaging the plot to find a marriage for himself. There would always be his favorite foods being served, and everyone done up in their best finery to distract himself for the night. He could look past how everyone was intentionally trying to win his favor and simply enjoy himself for the night. Rickon could dance well enough, so he told himself that he would dance with every lady once. He'd meet all of them this way, and get a full song to speak with them.

Unfortunately, there were several holes in this plan. He danced about, sure. After watching the sun set, and his father's formal announcement of the night, he was free to go about as everyone else did. Rickon tried to stick to his plan, but the women proved to be the biggest obstacle. Pleasant as they seemed, too often did Rickon find that they snuck back for multiple dances, even if he told them his plan. Some took him at his word. Some simply left after a turn with him.

“Any good partners tonight, Your Grace?” his current dance partner asked. Rickon had already forgotten her name, but she was pleasing enough to look at in her gown.

“A few,” Rickon admitted, “But dance may be the only thing they're good at.”

The lady laughed, waiting to be spun by him. Rickon obliged, but kept his distance as she turned back in. “Not all can keep up with us, I'm afraid,” she said. “I imagine commoners are at a loss during events like these.”

Rickon immediately stopped, making several people crash into him and dropping her hands. He took half a step away from the girl, trying to find his words. “They manage better than you,” he shot out, “particularly when holding their tongue. Excuse me.”

He left her on the floor, going to find a drink. Rickon didn't want to think over why her words bothered him so much, but he knew that flaunting his status was the last thing in mind when planning this event. When he spotted one of his siblings approaching, Rickon hurried back to the dance floor, inviting whoever was closest to him for a dance.

They were all pleasant enough, sure. After all, they all wanted to win him over, make a lasting impression so he'd invite them back to the floor on the morrow. It wasn't enough for Rickon. He wanted more than a pretty girl on his arm who could dance. He needed someone who wasn't afraid to match wits with him and challenge him if he spoke out of turn. Rickon even largely expected that the few commoners who counted out steps under their breath would be better at conversation than the others. He mulled over this as he continued switching through partners, letting his responses become scripted as he tried to figure out how to move forward. It was nearly five minutes before midnight on the first of three nights, and he was already getting bored.

“One dance tonight, I'm afraid,” he said, looking over the head of his partner and hoping that time had sped up. “I'm expected to meet with everyone tonight.”

“Of course,” she replied, placing a hand in his and taking her place.

Rickon grumbled at seeing the time, but he readied himself for the music and took proper position. Then, he looked down into bright blue eyes, only just visible behind a simple dark blue mask. He faltered. “Do I know you?” he sputtered out.

The music started, and he missed his step. His partner forcibly pulled him into the first few steps. “Better than you know this dance, it seems,” she said, beaming at him.

Rickon quickly caught his feet, taking the lead. He let his feet move on their own as he arranged his thoughts. “I'm sorry,” he said. “It's only that I feel I've seen your eyes before.”

“I've never been north before,” she admitted. “My family is from the Reach.”

Sighing, Rickon felt himself slump a bit before fixing his posture. “Of course, my lady.”

“Cassana,” she provided.

Rickon inclined his head to her. “Cassana,” he repeated. “Rickon.”

She giggled, stepping just too close for the dance. “I think everyone knows that,” she said.

Grinning, Rickon fixed a look down at her. She still felt familiar to him. He felt like he knew her eyes, and the black of her hair wasn't helping the distant memory he held onto. Still, he knew better than to pretend she was someone else, so he moved past it. “You might have the right of it,” he said. “Though, I sometimes forget myself.”

She laughed, louder this time, and Rickon would have sworn that he knew her laughter as well. He could still hear an echo of it bouncing about his head.

“How are the snows treating you?” he asked.

“Not as terrible as they're made out to be,” she said. “But I may change my mind if a blizzard comes in.”

“As you'd be welcome to,” Rickon said. He kept up the conversation as long as he could, finding Cassana easier to talk to as the night went on. It wasn't until the clock chimed the coming midnight that they stopped. Though, it wasn't of Rickon's doing.

Cassana stepped away, looking shocked. “I didn't notice the song change,” she said quickly. Rickon strained his ears to hear her over the chiming clock. “I'm afraid I overstayed my welcome.”

“You're welcome to another,” Rickon assured her.

“I couldn't,” she said, taking another step away. She pushed her mask back into place, even though it hadn't moved. She looked to the clock. “My mother is expecting me.”

Rickon sighed, giving her a bow. “Of course,” he said. “Can I escort you out?”

She smirked back at him, taking a moment longer to depart. “Think I don't know my way?” she asked. “I can manage just fine on my own.”

Waving her off, Rickon watched her go as long as he could. He was marginally aware that he ignored several ladies asking for a dance, but he couldn't get himself to look away. It took a proper shove from his brother before he finally went back to dancing until the night was up.

He ignored the japes from his family that he had already found someone to take to wife, providing generic names that he was certain had to belong to at least one of the girls in attendance. Still, he picked at his meals that day, thinking about Cassana and hoping that Shireen would appear before the dances were up.

There was no time for any of the Starks to pester him for long, though. They were all showered, dressed, and put in all their finery before their guests started arriving. Meanwhile the household was busy tending to decorations and preparing dishes for the night. The humdrum was a dull buzz in the back of his mind. Rickon simply prepared himself for individually greeting everyone coming tonight, thankful that they would at least be keeping their masks on.

After he was dressed, Bran came in, leaning heavily on his cane. He slumped into an empty chair, looking over at Rickon. “So have these Jeynes and Alyses only caught your eye?” Bran asked. “Who was the lady you danced with longer? The one who matched you?”

Rickon turned sharply. He was going to ignore his brother until that comment. “I matched someone?”

Bran shrugged, looking out a window to feign disinterest. “You both wore the same color—dark blue,” he said, “looked like a pair brought together at midnight. Is that why you gave her a second dance?”

“I didn't notice,” Rickon said, uncertain what he was admitting to with that statement. He turned to face his brother. “Do you know what color her hair was?”

“Brown?” Bran guessed. “I was trying to avoid details of dancing, seeing as I can't do so myself.”

Rickon tried to pretend he didn't care. That he couldn't be bothered to remember just how dark her hair had been. Even pulled from her face, it went to the middle of her back, and he wanted to run his fingers through the length of it.

“Let's hope she isn't in green tonight,” Bran said quickly, making for the door.

“What?” Rickon asked, looking to his brother.

Bran tapped his cane on the floor before using it to point at Rickon. “You'd match again.”

Rickon tried to push Bran's comment to the side. As much as he thought the coincidence was too much to happen twice, he couldn't help himself from taking extra care to notice which ladies arrived in green gowns.

Greeting everyone took even longer than he expected. This was largely due to a storm that blew in, making his guests look slightly disheveled as they struggled to be the first he met. The effort was for naught, though. Rickon had to stand his post, greeting everyone individually before he was allowed to leave. Still, it was far too easy for him to keep tabs on the few green gowns. None of them were her, of that Rickon was certain. He waited, though, hoping that the next name would be Shireen or Cassana. Even more, he hoped that they were one and the same.

Rickon was only further disappointed when neither of the names was introduced to him. He scanned the crowd, thinking that there was surely a mistake. He even took a moment to look back to the hall, hoping that another lady was waiting to be introduced. This only proved to disrupt the music, as the musicians were waiting on his cue to begin for the evening. Confusedly, Rickon stepped onto the floor. He made one final glance about before he simply turned to the closest lady to start the dance.

She seemed flustered by his invitation, but they started up the dancing nonetheless. Her shyness didn't last long, and she was soon blabbering in his ear.

“I didn't think you remembered me,” she said, batting her eyelashes at him. “It was early on yesterday, too.”

Rickon blindly nodded his assent, though he wasn't sure what he was trying to accomplish anymore. He switched partners at every opportunity, trying to find new vantage points to scan the crowd. The feeling in his stomach was back, and he only knew that he was seeking out bright blue eyes, regardless of who they belonged to.

When he finally found them—almost an hour into the night—he nearly froze in his steps. Forcing himself to finish the song, Rickon thanked his partner and left to find the only person who felt familiar to him. She greeted him with a laugh, moving up to join him for a dance.

“My lady,” Rickon greeted, starting their way through the dance.

“And to think I remembered your name,” she teased. “Or have you met too many ladies?”

Rickon shook his head. “It's only that you remind me of a girl I met,” he said. “I hoped she would come.”

Cassana smiled. “Did you ask her to?”

“I tried,” Rickon admitted. “I even wrote her an invitation myself.”

Her smile softened, and she slowed their dance. “She must have been special to win your heart.”

Rickon faltered, tripping over his feet slightly. “I wouldn't… she hasn't…” he tried. Then, he gave up. “She is. Though, I appreciate your company as well.”

The song ended, and their hands fell, though they remained clasped. Rickon didn't particularly want to dance more, but he wanted to test out Cassana's company.

“Would you join me for a walk about the grounds?” he asked.

Cassana smiled. “Through the snow?” she asked. “I suppose I can't refuse a prince, even if I destroy my gown.”

They left the hall together, and Cassana pressed at her mask a few times. She seemed to be checking that it was properly in its place, particularly as the stares grew more prominent. Rickon ignored them all. He simply led her out to the glass gardens, where her dress would be saved from becoming damp with snow. He glanced down once, checking that her hem was above the dirt. Only a small shimmer that must have been from her shoe caught his eye. Then, he noticed her dress.

“Tell me, Cassana,” he started slowly. He didn't want her to mistake his request for a command, so he kept his tone light. “How did we come to match exactly on both nights?”

She furrowed her brow at him, making her eyes darker behind the black mask she wore before realization crossed her face. Then, she laughed. “A coincidence, I'm sure,” she said. “I didn't even know the color of my gown. It was a gift.”

“From who?” Rickon asked. He secretly hoped that he didn't have any admirers to compete with, especially when he found himself more and more inclined to her company as the time passed.

Cassana smiled warmly. “My godfather,” she said. “I wasn't planning on attending the balls, but when I told him how much I wished to go, he provided me the gowns and carriage.”

Rickon couldn't stop the grin from spreading on his face. “Did you wish to come so much?”

Giggling, Cassana turned away from him, leading the way through the gardens. “Not to win your favor, I'm afraid,” she said. She spun to face him again, a devious smile on her face. “I simply wanted to enjoy a few nights of dancing before I returned home.”

“Could I visit you?” Rickon blurted out.

Cassana looked down at her hands. “I don't think so,” she muttered. “My mother isn't fond of visitors, even if they are royal.”

Rickon felt himself deflating. He hadn't realized how much he was hoping to invite her to the city for a chance to court her. He was simply doomed to have all the women he was infatuated with disappear from his life. Rickon settled for the next best thing. “Will you come earlier tomorrow?” he asked. “If I'm never to see you again, I'd at least like one full night to dance only with you.”

Even with the black mask over most of her face, Rickon thought he noticed her cheeks tinge red. She slowly backed away from him, putting distance between them that he couldn't remember closing. Then, she spoke directly at her hands. “I'll have to leave early today, then,” she said. “And see if it's possible…”

Her thought trailed off. Rickon didn't know what complications she had regarding coming earlier, but he didn't want to shorten any of his time with her. He glanced to the clock, seeing that there was an hour until midnight. “When will you go?”

Cassana smiled gently. “Perhaps after one more dance.”

Rickon expected that she meant to have the dance back in the hall, but he wasn't ready for everyone else to intrude on their privacy. Instead, he led her to a small courtyard that had been cleared of snow. Only the light of the moon guided them, and Cassana followed his lead in silence. They danced without music for quite some time before she leaned into his chest as they went. She seemed to settle there, though she kept up the dance. Then, she started to hum out a tune.

The song changed nearly as much as they switched direction, and Rickon felt like he was melting into the small bubble they created together. His feet moved effortlessly, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he knew Cassana for more than just her voice and wit. Too much time passed before they finally drew away, and Rickon stared into her shining eyes. He pulled her closer once more, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

Cassana froze, staring at him as he pulled away. Her hand drifted up to her cheek, and she took a step back. “I must be going.”

Rickon nodded. “But you'll return tomorrow?” he asked hopefully. “And I can have a night with you?”

The color returned to her face, and she nodded quickly before rushing away. Belatedly, Rickon followed after her, only managing to catch a glimpse of her carriage as it disappeared behind the castle walls. He returned to the hall in a stupor, trying to convince himself that he hadn't just imagined a pale, nearly translucent carriage moving away from the castle.

Rickon was jolted back to reality with the chime of the clock tower. There was only another hour to make it through tonight, and he was likely expected to return long ago. He wasn't entirely sure how much time he spent with Cassana, only that it wasn't enough. With his thoughts jumbled, he returned to the hall, quickly being asked back to the dance floor. He complied, though his mind was still filled with plans to have Cassana stay in his company even longer. His distraction must have been obvious, as he vaguely recalled ladies pushing into him with greater force, simply so he would spare them a dance. A few even removed their masks entirely, trying to find other ways to gain his attention.

None of it worked. By the end of the night, Rickon simply collapsed on his bed thinking that he was surely a fool for never asking the Lady Cassana's surname. Distantly, he remembered Shireen and how pleasant their meetings were. A part of him still hoped for her to appear on the last night, but he found himself in such high spirits thinking of Cassana, that he didn't know how he'd react should she come.

His family even took a step away from the matter. Undoubtedly, they had noticed his absence from the hall for most of the night, though he wasn't sure what was expected to come of it. If Cassana didn't wish to stay, he wouldn't force it of her. And if Shireen never appeared, he had no choice but to forget about her. Even Bran didn't bring up that Rickon had matched the same woman twice now, seemingly by chance. Rickon scarcely remembered what colors he would be wearing, how could Cassana possibly have known?

Rickon did know that he was to wear Stark colors for the final night. It seemed obvious to him, and he was slightly annoyed at the thought that others could guess it and intentionally dress to be better paired with him. Only one person would have his company tonight, though. And Rickon waited outside for her carriage to slowly approach.

He didn't even bother hiding. He knew what he was looking for the moment it came into view. Strange as the carriage may be, Rickon only wanted to greet the woman within. He looked past the odd off-white color of it and stepped forward to offer Cassana a hand down.

She slowly left the carriage, only struggling a bit with the bulk of her dress about her legs as she sat. Rickon smiled when he realized that it was entirely white, though her mask was the same silver-grey that accented his own ensemble. Cassana slowly adjusted herself before allowing him to lead her upstairs.

“I didn't realize I'd have an escort of such esteem,” she japed. “They'll think me a princess.”

Rickon smiled at her, leading her around the main doors of the hall and to the balcony that his family usually occupied for the night. “Any would make that mistake with you dressed as such,” Rickon insisted. “But I'd like you to meet some people tonight.”

“Oh?” she asked, again making certain her mask was in place. “Shouldn't I be…?”

Her question trailed off, and Rickon wasn't entirely sure what she was going to say. He simply led her straight to where his parents were seated, watching the dancing below. “My parents,” Rickon whispered to Cassana. To his parents, he spoke up. “May I introduce the Lady Cassana from the Reach.”

Catelyn smiled warmly at them, standing to give Cassana a hug. Ned simply kissed her knuckles with a bow, giving her an appraising look.

“Oh, have you managed to capture his heart?” Catelyn asked.

“I hope not,” Cassana replied, giving them a weak smile. “I'm to return to the Reach on the morrow, and I couldn't stay. I don't think my mother wishes me wed for years more.”

Catelyn's smile faltered and she looked confusedly to her husband. Ned placed an arm over her shoulders before nodding. “You couldn't stay even for the prospects of this marriage?” he asked. “Not many could sway this prince.”

Giggling politely, Cassana hid behind a glove. “I'm afraid not,” she said. “Mother likes to keep her plans.”

Before his parents could continue questioning her, Rickon cut in. “How about we dance, then?” he asked, leading her to the door. “I mean to enjoy my final night with you, Shireen.”

He took a step before he froze. The magnitude of his error weighed on his shoulders, and he didn't want to see Cassana's reaction to his flub. Still, he chanced a look back. The slightly mystified expression on her face quickly gave way to a faraway, almost sad smile.

“Do you truly care for this Shireen so?” she asked gently, helping him out the door.

Rickon shook himself, following her down. “I'm worried for her,” he admitted. “I haven't heard from her in weeks… but I care for you, as well, my lady.”

As a testament to their growing relationship, the conversation bounced back easily. Rickon's error was quickly forgotten as they discussed all manners of things while they danced and took time for breaks. Cassana was wonderfully amiable throughout the night, often suggesting that he take other partners, though Rickon refused them all. She constantly laughed at him and joked with him, even if they never returned to the peaceful closeness of the previous night. Rickon tried to sneak them off a few times, but Cassana brought them back every time. She seemed a little distracted by her thoughts, enough so that Rickon stopped them between songs. He pulled her slightly closer to the edge of the hall, and she followed, though a single tear escaped her mask and beat a path down her cheek.

“What's wrong?” Rickon asked, wiping the tear away with a knuckle.

Cassana shook her head, though she looked up at him with firm resolution. “I need to leave soon,” she murmured.

“No, you don't,” Rickon assured her. “You can stay as long as you'd like.”

“I can't,” she said. “I have to be gone. I have to leave. I can't just—”

Rickon placed his hand under her jaw, tilting her face up to see her fully. They were attracting more stares now, but Rickon refused to look away. “Please,” he mumbled. “Stay.”

Her tears came faster, though she nodded vigorously. Rickon smiled, leaning down to steal a kiss before he lost his chance forever. She grasped weakly at his wrist, though she didn't pull away. Together, they moved closer, and Rickon closed his eyes before she abruptly pulled away. Something clattered to the floor between them, and Rickon looked down as Cassana moved away from him. He bent down to retrieve the fallen silver mask, placing it into Cassana's outstretched hand before looking her full in the face.

She had her left hand pinned over her cheek, and Rickon saw desperation growing in her eyes before he realized that he knew exactly why she was so familiar. She turned away and dropped her hands to struggle with her mask, and Rickon felt his whole world coming together.

“Shireen?”

The mask clattered back to the floor. As Rickon watched her, he noticed a small pattern of grey growing from her left ear. When his eyes flicked to it, her eyes went wide, and she pressed a hand over her face again. “I'm sorry,” she muttered. “I can't… I have to—”

The clock chimed loudly, and Shireen jumped at the noise. Rickon stepped forward to settle her, but the panic was clear in her movements. She took hasty steps for the exit, looking about erratically. The whole time, she muttered out apologies, crashing into people several times. Then, she took off at a full sprint, heading out for her carriage.

Rickon followed quickly. He had a much harder time weaving through the guests who were trying to make sense of Shireen's escape. They filled the spaces she had created, and Rickon couldn't navigate them with her skill. He made it into a corridor as she was descending the stairs, and Rickon nearly paused to watch her black hair disappear before he gave chase again. She was halfway down the steps before she looked back and stumbled. Quickly, she found her footing, though she lost one of her shimmery silver shoes in the process. Shireen paid it no mind. She simply ran to her carriage and took off before she was properly seated.

Pausing to retrieve the shoe, Rickon rushed off. He knew he couldn't follow a carriage on foot, nor could he get to his horse fast enough to give proper chase. Swearing loudly, Rickon raced up to the battlements of the castle, hoping he could at least see which way Shireen had gone. There was nothing in sight, but a confused crowd was gathering at the door to the castle. Hiding the shoe away, Rickon marched to his guard.

“Keep watch for anyone leaving the city,” he instructed. “See that no one goes without inspection.”

“What are you searching for?” Jory asked, following Rickon as he isolated himself in a separate hall.

Rickon slumped down into a chair, pulling out the single silver shoe. “I need to find the girl who fits this shoe.”

Jory laughed loudly, jarring Rickon to the reality of the situation. He made sure to point out the flaws. “You mean to have every woman in the city try on that shoe?” he asked. “Surely, the size of a foot is not unique.”

Frowning hard, Rickon glared at Jory. “I have to find her,” he said. “I have to at least learn the truth.”

Giving Rickon an odd look, Jory left the room. He returned shortly with the entire Stark family in tow. Rickon knew that he was likely causing an uproar—that there was no need for him to be so single-minded about this one girl. Luckily, the women in his family had the sparkle of romance in their eyes, so Rickon knew he'd at least be heard out.

“Every woman in the city?” Bran asked at the end of it. “That's absurd.”

“What? Inviting them to the castle?” Robb asked. “We've just done that. Surely, they'll all come back.”

“Not if she's leaving,” Arya pointed out. “Then, she could hide out or stow away on a carriage.”

Frantically, Rickon remembered the small shop of the sailor. He knew Winterfell was landlocked, but he couldn't help but feel like something would escape his notice.

“We're stopping all carriages out,” Jory said. He handed off a small note to Ned before turning to Rickon. “But it's not like to be enough.”

“I'll go myself,” Rickon offered. He tried to quickly think through a plan. “She could be going by any name now. I'll have to see her to know.”

Ned shook his head. “You'll cause a commotion,” he said. “We'll have too many women jumping at the chance. Tell us: what do you remember of her?”

“Her name is Shireen,” Rickon said, knowing that that had to be true. “She has black hair, as dark as pitch, darker maybe, and blue eyes brighter than any I've seen before.”

He looked up to find Sansa with tears in her eyes. She was positively enamored with the way he was talking, and Rickon tried to shake his discomfort from it. He wasn't planning for the sake of his marriage. He truly needed to know.

“Anything else?” Jory asked, scribbling down what Rickon said.

Rickon shrugged, looking down at his hands. “She lost a shoe.”

In a matter of hours, the search party had been formed. Rickon was to wait for results in the castle, particularly as he was becoming more and more distant. Jory led the party, visiting every household in the city. He asked to see all the women, checked which had black hair, and checked which of those had blue eyes. Unfortunately, once word spread of the profile they were looking for, every woman suddenly had black hair. Most of the guises were easy to see through, and fewer still had blue eyes. But none could answer the remaining question of what the lady had left behind when she fled.

Every day, Rickon grew more peeved. He knew that Shireen hadn't left the city, but there was no proper cause for her to be missing for so long. If folk had known her in the city, she can't have simply disappeared. He started climbing up to the tallest tower every day, following the path that Jory took, and trying to find the fault. After a week, Rickon started looking back out to the edge of the wood. It was where he originally met Shireen, and Rickon couldn't shake the feeling that she was still there. The house never showed any signs of life, but Rickon knew that there was at least one occupant there.

“We've checked every household,” Jory said. “Every door, every cupboard, every crevice, every shed… She must be gone.”

Rickon wouldn't be swayed. “The house by the wood,” he said firmly. “Did you check there, too?”

“It's abandoned,” Jory sighed. “There's no one living there.”

“There is,” Rickon said firmly. He pulled his cloak on, rushing down to the stables. He'd check the house himself just to be certain. He didn't escape without a full guard, though. They moved quickly to form ranks around him, letting him set the pace for the ride.

Rickon scarcely slowed as he approached the house. He dismounted quickly before rushing to the door and pounding on it with his fist. Jory pulled him back then, stepping in front of him before the door swung open. The same woman from before stood in front of them. Her hair was unnaturally red, and Rickon felt himself seething at her presence. Was it this woman who took Shireen away? Had she caused all of this to happen?

“Can I help you?” she asked softly, smiling warmly at them.

Jory took another step forward. “We're here on the king's orders,” he said firmly. “Your home is being subject to a full inspection.”

The woman's expression soured. “I don't much like royalty,” she spat out.

“It will be forced of you if you resist,” Jory said.

Sneering, the woman stepped down from her door. She looked prepared to snap at them, but Rickon stepped around to make for the house.

“Still empty, boy,” she said, “just as I told you before.”

Ignoring her, Rickon walked in. Heat immediately hit him hard, suffocating him almost. Rickon pulled up his collar to breathe through his tunic. He heard his guard following him in, but he was ready to complete the task himself. A quick burst of flame caught his eye, and Rickon turned to see a guard jump back from a pile of ash. Then, throughout the house, a loud, echoing voice boomed out, “ _I TOLD YOU TO KNOCK._ ”

Members of his guard exchanged a shrug, but something in the back of Rickon's mind clicked. He shouldered his way through several doors, leaving small fires in his wake. Ultimately, he moved down, finding any means into a basement. It was particularly well-hidden, but Rickon tore down the bookshelf in the way to reveal a door. He had to kick that one in as well, creating a larger fire that his guard tended while he ran down the stairs. Stumbling a bit down the winding staircase, Rickon broke down another door to enter a tiny room. He nearly dismissed it as empty, when the slight shuffling of cloth hit his ears.

Turning about the room, Rickon finally spotted a moving lump. It was made all the more noticeable when it started coughing. Rickon rushed over, rolling over a girl covered head to toe in a layer of dust and grime. She looked as if she hadn't been outside in weeks, on top of being nearly unconscious. Rickon didn't bother cleaning her hair off to check the color, and rousing her seemed too much, so he simply lifted her into his arms and carried her to where his guard was waiting outside.

Jory looked absolutely appalled at seeing the girl in such a state, but the woman was entirely unfazed.

“Who is this?” Rickon demanded, setting her down and trying to drip water into her mouth.

The woman shrugged. “A scullery maid,” she said, “serving out her punishment for disobeying orders.”

The girl coughed in his arms, and Rickon could hear the sound struggling to come from deep in her lungs. He lifted her again, fitting a hand behind her neck to feed her more water. She stirred lightly before going limp again.

“Take her to the dungeons,” Rickon demanded. He hefted the girl back into his arms before struggling to find a way atop his horse. Several of his guard helped him, letting him keep the girl in front of him. Rickon grabbed the reins tightly, turning back toward the castle. “I'll see to the woman when Shireen is safe.”

Regardless of what the situation might be, Rickon was positive that the girl was Shireen. He shared multiple nights of dance with her, plenty of intimate conversation, and knew her better than he knew most people. He raced as hard as he dared back to the castle, keeping Shireen safe in his arms. She needed to be tended to quickly, particularly as there was no telling how long she was made to suffer in that basement.

It was only her safety that stopped Rickon from leaping off his horse. Instead, he slowly dismounted and kept her safe in his arms. She shuddered lightly through the fog of unconsciousness over her, and Rickon pressed on faster to the maester's chambers. A few of his family tried to question him as he went, but Rickon ignored them all. He didn't stop to acknowledge anyone else until she was lying on a bed, being examined by the maester.

“Where did you find her?” Ned asked, furrowing his brow.

Rickon crossed the room quickly, fetching a damp washcloth to wipe off her face. “The house on the edge of the wood,” he said dismissively. “Unconscious, covered in filth, nearly suffocating in heat…”

The washcloth came back entirely black with dirt several times, though Rickon had only just found her skin in some places. Most of his family just watched on until Arya moved a bucket closer and began the slow process of properly bathing her. Rickon focused solely on her face, uncovering it and discovering for true that it was Shireen.

“Is it her, then?” Sansa asked, her voice low.

Rickon nodded, wringing out the cloth to finish up her left cheek. “It is.”

Though the cloth came back clean, her cheek remained grey, looking pocked and hardened as stone. Curiously, Rickon brushed his fingers over her cheek, feeling that her skin was completely rough there.

“Is that…?” Bran started weakly.

Rickon glanced up, seeking some clue from his brother. However, Bran was already hobbling away, moving with a fair amount of speed for one with a cane. In his confusion, Rickon was pushed away from Shireen. The maester was carefully examining her and creating substances for her to take. Rickon stood by, ready to begin his vigil over her until she woke. He was only more annoyed when Sansa pushed him from the room entirely.

“She needs a proper bath,” Sansa insisted, “and clean clothes.”

With only a small bit of grumbling, Rickon left. He didn't go very far, though. He had every intention to return to Shireen's side as soon as he was allowed. Unfortunately, Rickon was summoned away to his parents, much to his annoyance. Still, Rickon went, hoping that they had solutions.

To Rickon's surprise, Bran was with them in their sitting room. He had a small stack of letters sitting over a large tome. Hesitantly, Rickon entered completely, looking about for answers.

“Did you return with the Lady Cassana?” Ned asked first.

Rickon was peeved. He expected his father to know better than to assume she'd given her real name. “The Lady Shireen,” he corrected. “They are one and the same.”

Ned raises an eyebrow at his son. “And you're positive of her name?”

“Absolutely,” Rickon said. He noticed a strange look pass between his parents and brother, picking at something in the back of his mind. “Why?”

“Her left cheek,” his mother said. She closed her eyes tight and let out a long breath. “Bran said you touched it… how did it feel?”

Rickon let out a sigh, remembering the pull on the pads of his fingers from the rough skin on her cheek. He tried to be dismissive of it. “Firm,” he said. “Rough and pocked… like a living statue.”

His parents exchanged another look, but Rickon turned to Bran. His brother looked split between excited and cautious. After a moment, Bran stepped forward with the book, presenting a page to Rickon.

“It's greyscale,” he said firmly. “The disease is highly contagious. It spreads from person to person, covering entire bodies in stone. There's only one known survivor: a girl by the name of Shireen.”

Rickon read through the passage from the book quickly, pushing it back to his brother. “This says that none have ever survived,” he pointed out. “And she's fine.”

Bran shook his head. He put the book back on the table before retrieving the letters. “Because the book is old,” he explained. “The letters are from before we were born, from a southern lord. His daughter was afflicted. She survived, and her name was Shireen.”

Staring dumbfounded at his brother. Rickon took the letters and read through them quickly. He sifted through the information, latching onto the key parts. Then, he looked up to his parents, awaiting a response.

“The conclusion is sound,” Ned said. “I believe that you have found Shireen Baratheon, the missing heir to Storm's End.”

“The _only_ heir to Storm's End,” Bran emphasized. He removed the letters from Rickon's hands, placing them back on the table. “Southern lords have been feuding over the land for years, but they will recognize the Baratheon heir. She has lands to inherit by her birthright.”

Rickon took a step away, trying to sort through the information. There were other Baratheons to take the seat, and if she didn't know her paternity it wouldn't do well to force it on her. While he tried to think of a way to convey this, his other siblings came in. Bran quickly brought them to speed while Rickon found his way about his tongue.

“There are other Baratheons,” he said firmly, turning to look at Myrcella. He knew enough from his lessons to remember laws of inheritance.

Myrcella shook her head gently. “There aren't,” she told him. “Joffrey is to inherit the Crownlands. I will be seated in Winterfell, and Tommen is heir to Casterly Rock.”

Arya crossed her arms, shaking her head. “You have an uncle.”

“Renly refuses to have children,” Myrcella said, “and Stannis has been dead for years.”

Robb let out a long sigh. He took his wife's hands, holding them firmly. “Then, who will tell her?”

Rickon insisted that it be him. He knew that it was likely his family would forget their sensibilities and her situation when dealing with matters of the lands. As such, Rickon eagerly volunteered to stay at her bedside and give her the news when she was ready.

His post was set up for him when he returned. Shireen had been bathed and dressed, and she had been placed under the blankets of her bed. Her body was so still, Rickon held his breath for lengths of time to check that she was breathing. The room steadily grew darker and colder as a storm blew in. Rickon moved to shut the windows tight and light a fire, but he quickly returned to Shireen's side. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, and the color slowly returned to her face. She grew stronger overnight, and Rickon fell asleep at her side, his hand over hers.

He woke from a hand brushing over his hair, and he jumped up, thinking that Shireen had finally woken. Heart racing, Rickon sought out her face, but she was still sound asleep. She did look healthier now, more colored and alive. Still, Rickon turned until he found his mother behind his chair.

“Breakfast will be ready soon,” she murmured. Catelyn smiled at him, reaching forward to comb his hair back. “Would you like to join us this morning?”

Slowly, Rickon nodded. He waited for his mother to leave first, though, twisting his hand in Shireen's and coming to terms with leaving for a short while. After a minute he stood, giving her hand a light squeeze before drawing away. Just as his fingers were sliding from her palm, he felt a tiny, almost imperceptible response. Turning quickly, Rickon almost lost his footing. He leaned over the bed to find Shireen's breathing growing harder, more frantic. Reaching out, he stroked her hair back and took her hand again.

“It's okay,” he muttered. Rickon moved down to press his forehead to hers. “You're safe now. I promise.”

Shireen's eyes blinked open the smallest amount. Then, her grip tightened on his before she slumped further into the bed.

Sighing, Rickon tucked her back into place. He made certain that she would be comfortable before kissing the crown of her head and rushing off to have a quick breakfast.

The day passed without event. Even with his breaks for meals, Rickon always returned to find Shireen sound asleep. She did start to move in her sleep, though, and Rickon hoped that she would wake on the morrow. He settled into his chair at her side, finally letting himself realize that he was overwhelmed at the prospects of her waking. Rickon hadn't spoken to her since the balls, and it all seemed far too brief to him now. How was he supposed to ask her to stay and be courted when she might not feel the same way for him?

Slumping down, Rickon dug a hand into his hair. He pulled at it, trying to rationalize his attraction to this girl who stumbled into his life a handful of times. With everything surrounding him, Rickon knew that he would very much like to court the only lady who didn't care for his station and could make him laugh. However, there was no way for him to guess that she would be prepared for it. He scarcely knew what her life had been, and it all seemed so frivolous now.

The soft touch of fingertips over his ear roused Rickon. He looked up, almost expecting his mother again, but he was pleasantly surprised to see Shireen smiling gently at him. She blinked slowly, glancing around.

“Where am I?” she breathed out, struggling to sit up.

Rickon quickly moved forward. He supported her back, helping her to lean on the headboard of the bed. “At the castle,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

Shireen grumbled, rubbing her palms over her eyes. “A little thirsty,” she admitted. “It's been… how long has it been?”

With a small smile, Rickon retrieved a glass of water. He held it out to her, then he said, “I don't know. I found you in the basement of that house. You were unconscious.”

Her eyes went wide, and she started scrambling to grab at the blankets. “Oh no,” she breathed out. “I can't be here. I have to—”

“Shireen,” Rickon said firmly. He grasped onto her hand to still her and draw her attention. “Who was that woman?”

“M-my… my mother,” she stuttered out.

Rickon's gaze softened, and he sat down again. He sighed loudly. “Truly?” he asked. “Because you need not return if you don't wish to.”

Shireen's eyes filled with tears, and she shook her head. “No,” she murmured. “She saved me. There was a fire that killed my father, and she saved me. She… I might have destroyed everyone…”

Rickon watched her weakly lift a hand to her cheek. She still looked panicked, though the look in her eyes was far away. After a moment, he tried again. “Was she truly your mother?”

It took a while, but Shireen eventually turned and looked at him. Her eyes were fully focused. “No,” she whispered. “She married my father after I was born.”

“Shireen, what was your father's name?” Rickon asked.

“Stannis,” she said.

“And your name is truly Shireen?”

“Yes.”

Rickon grasped onto her hand, trying to settle his thoughts. “I meant to ask you to stay at the castle with me,” he said. “But there is something you need to know first.”

Gathering himself, Rickon tried to find a place to start. He scarcely knew all the information, and he somehow had to tell her. Sucking in a breath, Rickon summoned forth his greatest courage and tried to start somewhere.

“I'll stay.”

Rickon sat up, turning to look at her. “What?”

“I'll stay,” she repeated.

Rickon was stunned. He stared dumbly at Shireen before shaking himself. “But there's… there's also…” He swallowed hard, reorganizing his thoughts, but only one thought was at the forefront of his mind. “You want to stay?”

Shireen smiled, nodding. “I do,” she murmured. She twisted her hand about to take his, lacing their fingers together. “Though, I never imagined myself as a princess.”

Returning the smile, Rickon cleared his throat gently. “You are a princess of your own right,” he told her. “Would you like to see?”

The look of confusion never left Shireen's face, but she slowly left the bed and followed Rickon out to a tea room. He led her to a plush sofa before retrieving the book and letters that Bran showed him. Then, he stepped away to let her come to conclusions on her own, retrieving a bowl of soup for her to eat. Carrying the tray carefully, Rickon set it down before taking the seat beside her.

Shireen put a letter down and pulled up the last one, reading through it. Furrowing her brow, she turned back to Rickon. “I can't… I don't know how to rule,” she murmured. As she kept going, she became more panicked. “Even if I could, I've never left—what will happen to her? She'll expect me back. She’ll follow me.”

Shaking his head, Rickon reached out to calm her. “She won't,” he assured her. “That woman is in the dungeons, awaiting your judgement.”

“ _My_ judgement?” she asked back.

Rickon shrugged. “Regardless of whether you take Storm's End, her punishment is yours to give,” he explained. “You were harmed by her hand.”

Shireen smiled at her hands. “I almost feel I should thank her,” she said. “She brought me to you.”

“Then, she brought this about herself,” Rickon said. He took the book and letters from Shireen, moving them away before sitting even closer to her. “You need not decide now. But… I couldn't lie to you for it.”

“Why, Rickon?” Shireen asked.

Rickon grinned. “Because I rather think this prince fancies an odd girl,” he said. “And I know he'd like a chance to court you.”

“But my greyscale,” Shireen murmured. “You didn't know before. Surely, it's—”

Lifting a hand, Rickon stroked over her cheek, shocking her into silence. He slowly inclined his head, moving to kiss her cheek again. Shireen blinked at him, meeting his eyes. Rickon held her face, licking his lips.

“You left the ball so early,” he said. “But I would still like a kiss.”

Her eyes flicked down to his mouth a moment before she stretched up to close the distance between them. Their lips met softly, only for a brief moment, before Shireen pulled away with a small giggle.

“There's your kiss,” she whispered.

“I'd like another,” Rickon said hopefully, letting his hands slide down her arms. He could still see the soup sitting on the table behind her, though. He gestured to it. “But you must be hungry.”

She nodded, so they lapsed into silence as she ate slowly. It took her a long time, and Rickon left for a minute to bring her blanket from the bed. He draped it over her shoulders before sliding back beside her. Shireen smiled over at him, mumbling out her thanks as she cleaned her bowl with the heel of bread. Then, she put the bowl back on the table.

Hesitantly, Rickon opened his arms for her. She slowly moved into him, moving to kiss his cheek in the process.

“Thank you, my prince,” she said, leaning onto his shoulder.

Rickon kissed the top of her head, holding onto her for the rest of the night.

\--

Everything about the day was warm: the sun shining down, the breeze blowing past, the grass underneath them, and most importantly, the feel of being so close to someone. The proximity made Rickon's head buzz, but he wouldn't give it up for anything. After the ordeal he went through to find Shireen, he was going to keep her. She didn't seem bothered at all about this, especially not when she reached out for his waist to pull him closer.

Rickon's loosened tunic proved to be an immediate obstacle. Shireen had to fix her grip multiple times in the fabric to have some effect on changing his position. With a small grumble, Shireen gnawed slightly on his lower lip to keep their mouths together while she slid as close as their hips allowed.

Chuckling, Rickon pulled away. He reached out for her cheek, keeping her face right before his. “So eager today?”

Shireen huffed, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “As if you aren't most days,” she retorted. “It's a wonder no one has caught us.”

“I'd wager that's because everyone already knows,” Rickon whispered, tilting his head to capture her lips again.

No one could protest the point. Ever since Shireen's recovery, Rickon has been continuously by her side. He slowly eased her into life at the castle and accompanied her to all her lessons, especially because she would inherit Storm's End. His attendance and attention had never been better, even if he took every opportunity to steal Shireen away from prying eyes on days such as this. Still, he knew that his parents knew his intentions. At the very least, they suspected that the two would be wed in the near future. Robb was far more vocal about it, often causing dinners together to be filled with Myrcella reeling in her husband and Shireen coaxing Rickon away from retaliation.

They had plenty of time away from prying eyes, and Shireen used this time to explain her past to Rickon. She told him how her father married the woman who would later neglect her, how they moved to Winterfell soon after her father died, and how she only ever had a friend in her godfather, a sailor by the name of Davos. Rickon asked about the balls, making Shireen blush a deep red.

“I wanted to see you,” she confessed. Twisting her fingers together, she spoke to her lap. “I knew I couldn't wed you—that it would be terrible—but I wanted to see you once more before I left.”

Rickon shook his head at her, grabbing onto her hands. “And why couldn't you wed me?”

Shireen swallowed, glancing up at him. “My mother told me that my greyscale would kill anyone who touched it,” she explained, “and I couldn't do that to you.”

Smiling, Rickon leaned forward to kiss her greyscale again. “This?” he asked, kissing her again and getting giggles in return. “You think this could kill me?”

“Stop that,” Shireen said weakly, only just pushing him away. “Everyone will hear you.”

“No,” Rickon replied. “Everyone should hear me. They already know we're here, they may as well learn that I won't be cowed by your greyscale.”

Sighing, Shireen looked Rickon full in the face. “And what else shall everyone know?” she asked.

“That I intend on asking for your hand in marriage,” Rickon said, smiling at her.

Shireen blinked. “But I… I have to go to Storm's End.”

“I'll go with you,” Rickon murmured. He clasped his hands tight over hers, bringing them to his mouth. “Even to Storm’s End… I’d not wish to be apart from you.”

“You would?” Shireen asked softly.

Rickon smiled at her, pushing her hair back behind her shoulder. “I would.”

Grinning, Shireen bounced closer to him. She threw her arms around his neck, knocking Rickon flat on his back, but she quickly followed after him, kissing him deeply. Rickon wrapped his arms around her, holding her in place. They kissed for a long while, enjoying each other’s company out in the sun. Finally, Rickon pulled her back inside, running all the way to find his parents in a sitting room and letting them know that they would soon have to prepare for a wedding.


End file.
